This is only my second reblog in 5 years, but I couldn’t resist. This piece is written by a blogging friend on the Isle of Jersey, Roy McCarthy, who has written a number of novels. I love the closer in this short story. You’ll see why! Thanks, Roy.
It had been years now since he’d said a sweet word to her, or given her a cuddle, much less bought her flowers on her birthday. Barely a ‘hello’ as he came home from the office at the end of each day. Still, she believed it was her place, her duty to look after him – cook his meals, iron his shirts, keep a clean and tidy house.
‘There must be more,’ she often thought as they sat in silence each evening, watching television. He would frown in disapproval on the rare occasion that she’d go and see her friends, perhaps attend an evening lecture or even a performance of the local amateur dramatics society. He himself never went anywhere other than to and from work. Wouldn’t dream of accompanying her anywhere.
Yet he wasn’t cruel, didn’t mistreat her. Separation had never entered her head. But one evening, not feeling…
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